Not even a proper one
by Water-please
Summary: What happened, wasn't planned. Not at all.


**Title**: Not even a proper one

**Pairing**: Sherlock/John

**Rating**: T

**Warnings**: Slash

**Spoilers**: none that I'm aware of

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine. Obviously.

**Beta**: Have none. All mistakes are mine.

**Summary**: What happened, wasn't planned. Not at all.

**A/N**: I'm open to constructive criticism, but not to flaming of any kind.

What happened, wasn't planned. Not at all.

All there was to it was an absent minded gesture, one John wasn't even aware he was doing at first.

It was one morning before John had to leave for work. He was in a hurry and brushed past Sherlock on his way out. As they hurried past each other, John turned his head slightly up, to brush his lips briefly against Sherlock's jawline. „Bye. See you tonight." Just a quick peck, and out the door.

What John had just unconsciously done (_he had practically __**kissed**_ _Sherlock, didn't he?!_) hit him like a ton of bricks, having not reached the front door yet.

Bloody hell.

John stood rooted to the spot, frozen, processing what he had just done.

Fuck.

His heart beating like mad, he briefly contemplated to race back up the stairs, to explain what had been going on in his mind (_Nothing. He didn't think at the time, it was just some kind of reflex. It didn't mean anything_.). His hand still on the doorknob, he listened anxiously if maybe Sherlock would come down instead. The great detective no doubt would have noticed the front door not closing, which meant that John hadn't left the house yet.

No.

This would not do. John could not face Sherlock right now. It was nothing, he said to himself repeatedly, just what good friends (_very good friends indeed, _a voice whispered) did. He didn't believe it himself, so he knew he needed time to come up with a better explanation, most of all for himself. Being under the scrutiny of the best detective in the world would not help matters at all.

He needed time.

John then determinedly opened the door, stepped out on the street and began walking at a brisk pace, the front door closing with a bang behind him.

..0..

When John returned from work in the evening, he had come to the decision of not mentioning the issue at all. He didn't want anything to change between them. He was content with what they had, and besides, Sherlock was married to his work, so even if John had … feelings for his friend, he would never do anything to jeopardize their friendship.

Sherlock hadn't tried to contact him either, so John was confident that his flatmate would prefer to sweep the incident under the rug as well. And if Sherlock, who usually made it perfectly clear when he wanted to talk about something, chose to ignore what happened, John was sure he could do that as well.

So it was in a forced chipper kind of way that John entered the flat at 221B Baker Street at 7 pm, a bit later than usual, but not too late for Sherlock to assume that John maybe wanted to stall for time. It was all normal, perfectly normal! ‚So act natural!', he reminded himself.

John had to take one look at his friend to know that his tactic of I-pretend-nothing-is-different-please-pass-me-my-tea would not work.

When John entered the flat, Sherlock, tall, handsome, impeccably dressed, was standing by the mantelpiece next to the Skull, slowly turned around to face the army doctor, but not saying a word. His face was inscrutable.

„Hi Sherlock! Had a nice day?"

John cringed internally at this lame line and at his voice, which was half an octave higher than usual. Damn nerves. (_Act natural, for god's sake!_)

Sherlock seemed unperturbed by his friend's obvious nervous behavior, but didn't leave his place at the mantelpiece.

„Don't you think we should talk about this?", Sherlock calmly asked in his deep baritone voice, looking intently at his flatmate.

John tried to act innocent, raising his eyebrows in an unsuccessful attempt to appear clueless. „About what?", he asked curtly, thankful that his voice sounded almost normal and was more than a croak. (_This damn voice…)_

„About the kiss you gave me this morning", came Sherlock's cool and collected reply.

Bugger.

„That wasn't a kiss", John laughed nervously and licking his lips. (_Oh god. Sherlock's eyes were darting to John's mouth and flickered back to his eyes.)_

„It was just a tiny peck, an accident. Don't read too much into it." John felt his heart hammer in his throat. Would Sherlock be assuaged? It had cost John the whole bloody day to come up with this ‚explanation' of why he had pressed his lips to some part of his flatmate's face.

There. He didn't. He didn't press anything to anything, he just happened to look up to Sherlock, and suddenly, they touched. There. Perfectly understandable. Could happen to anyone.

As John had secretly feared though, Sherlock didn't buy any of it. He just kept looking at John with those bright eyes.

„Your lips touched my face. I do believe that this constitutes a kiss, as per definition by Merriam-Webster. I can send you the linK", Sherlock shot back, ending his sentence with a distinct sound stressing the „K".

(_Was there a predatory look in Sherlock's eyes?_)

John felt heat creep up his neck, and knew it showed.

„Oh come on Sherlock." John tried again. „It wasn't a proper kiss, just a brief - and accidental, I might add - touch. Don't worry, it won't change anything, if we don't let it. As I said, it wasn't even a proper kiss. Should we watch some telly?"

John began to turn around and march to the TV in a desperate attempt to change the focus of their conversation, but Sherlock was quicker.

The dark haired man crossed the few paces across the room to John, took his face between his hands (_oh so warm hands, gentle and strong_), looked into John's eyes and lowered his face to his. John stood, dumbstruck and unable to look anywhere but into Sherlock's mesmerizing eyes, their color now a bright gray-green. Hard to tell, for Sherlock's pupils were quite dilated.

Lips not yet touching, Sherlock waited for John's permission. When John's eyes flickered between Sherlock's eyes and mouth, he had his answer and closed the distance between them, pressing his lips to John's. John's eyes had closed on their own accord, and he reveled in the sensation of having his Sherlock as close as never before. Someone's tongue slid out, tentatively, begging entrance, and being granted it full willing.

Both men let out a soft groan when their mouths fused fully, and they drank their fill of the other.

When breathing became a necessity and could not be postponed any longer, their lips separated with an audible ‚smack'.

Sherlock looked into John's eyes, his face still in his hands, and visibly breathless. „Now *that* was a proper kiss, I guess. Ready to talk now?"

John, whose hands had fisted into Sherlock's shirt, took a deep breath, smiled a crooked but happy smile, and murmured „Shut up, you git", while yanking the consulting detective back into their embrace.


End file.
